


Forgetting Tomorrow

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-20
Updated: 2006-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in 1973, not knowing if he’s in a coma, or genuinely travelled back in time from 2006. The identity crisis couldn’t get any worse for Sam Tyler. Until something goes wrong. And things aren’t only difficult for Sam. Try working a murder investigation minus the knowledge base of an integral member of your team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgetting Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Gen. Written for [ fandom_deja_vu](http://community.livejournal.com/fandom_deja_vu). Thanks to Livejournal User scidazzle for being a wonderfully supportive beta and holding my hand.

“I am so sick and tired of your constant whining on the subject, Tyler. If you want to do some ‘reconnaissance’ or whatever it is you keep calling it, do it yourself.”

Sam and Gene were at loggerheads. Sam was pretty sure he’d stumbled upon a case. An important case. One which they needed to investigate, because it could cut down on the drug trafficking in the city. Gene Hunt did not want to expend the time and resources on a possibility. Apparently they had enough cases of their own to deal with, without adding on more. Sam had spent the better part of the day attempting to get some sort of commitment from Gene for investigative purposes, but all Gene did was deflect the conversation. Sam had finally confronted the Gene-beast in his native habitat, his smoke-filled office, and set about lecturing him for a good ten minutes.

“We need to stop this as soon as possible. They get one victory and then they think they can continue. They just get bigger and bigger, gaining more conquests and destroying more lives.”

“You make it sound like it’s a bloody band of pirates roaming around,” Gene said with a lazy wave of his hand. Sam scowled.

“When I was DCI,” Sam began, forgetting himself for a moment.

“When was that, Gladys? When cats barked and dogs meowed? Was Sooty your number one DI? Perhaps you were having a clandestine affair with Sue? Or is Sweep more your ticket?”

“Sod off, Hunt.”

“No. This is my office. You sod off. Go on. Either you do what I say, Tyler, or you do nothing at all. I don’t need someone like you on my team,” Gene replied, advancing slowly on Sam, who found himself backing into the filing cabinet. 

Sam wasn’t having any of that. He narrowed his eyes and invited Gene to take a shot. He was just itching for the opportunity to get his point across in language the Guv would understand. Gene’s hand went towards Sam’s head, so Sam swiftly punched him in the gut. He looked in surprise as Gene doubled over in pain, the whiskey bottle that had been on top of the cabinet in his hand. 

Gene glared up at Sam, blue eyes furious. “Out. Out and don’t come back, Tyler,” Gene croaked, before beginning to hobble towards his chair. “I mean it. And thank your lucky stars that I don’t have my gun shoved up your jacksy.”

Sam frowned, whipped around and stormed out of the office. At any other time, his actions would have been simple self-defence. It was just his luck that Gene was on some kind of non-violence kick. He strode past Chris, who looked flustered, and Ray, who sported his habitual smirk. Sam practically kicked down the doors to get out of the station. 

Fine. If Gene wasn’t going to “waste time” doing actual policework, Sam _would_ go and do his reconnaissance all by himself. He’d figure out the drugs deal, bring in his collar. He would get a good result and then show Gene what it would be like to have something shoved up his jacksy. Success.

* * *

The drivers seat in his borrowed 1962 Austin A60 Cambridge was not particularly comfortable. It was quite warm so Sam took off his leather jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his light brown shirt. He shifted position and started tapping a beat on his steering wheel. Sam hummed a little bit. An interestingly rendered version of Pulp’s “Common People” echoed through the enclosed space.

Three hours of surveillance at the corner of Hood and Murray Street had passed at middling speed. Sam had packed himself accordingly. He had a tape deck so that he could record any remarks on what he might witness. He had biscuits to munch on. He also had a dinner which consisted of stir-fried chicken and a crunchy Thai salad, made with the finest but most expensive of ingredients his local Asian grocer could provide (local was a subjective term in this case, but a couple of miles wasn’t that bad). It wasn’t quite up to the same standard as what he was able to procure in 2006, but it was better than nothing. It was a great deal healthier than most of the stuff he’d been eating in 1973. Sam wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t an excess of fat in his diet that was making him so quick of temper lately.

He was eyeing his food around every five minutes now. Originally it had only been every half hour or so, but as the time ticked on, his stomach decided to start making plaintive noises, and whilst he was fully aware not having a partner meant he couldn’t eat the chicken salad now and grab a burger or some fish and chips later, he was seriously contemplating these actions anyway.

So far he had seen six cats in an array of fashionable colours, quite a few innocuous people walking by, but nothing to do with the tips he had received from his informant Leonard. It was getting dark there now, the streetlight nearest Sam had just come on and there was less traffic going down both streets. Sam was parked on Hood, facing the intersection between it and Murray, where the establishment he was interested in was to the left. 

Four Pulp songs later, including an especially operatic version of “This is Hardcore”, Sam found his patience was wearing thin. He started biting his way through rocket and chinese cabbage. He consumed noodles and chicken with an almost feverish rapidity. He was halfway between getting a large mouthful of cucumber and baby spinach into his mouth when he viewed activity up ahead. 

A figure had stumbled into the street and was appearing to collapse before Sam’s eyes. It could just be a drunkard who’d had too much too early, but he didn’t think so. The person was quite tall, a woman he thought by a glance at her shape. At first Sam fumbled with his tape deck to record his observations, then gave up and got out of the car. He made his way over to help what he now saw was a brown-haired lady in her 20s, a faint echoing of a clicking noise as he went. 

He had just reached the person, now crouching on the ground, when Sam felt a great force come down upon his head. Everything disappeared from view, and Sam slumped downwards to meet the asphalt.

* * *

It was cold and wet. He didn’t like the cold. It seeped through his bones and made the shirt he was wearing cling to his chest in the most uncomfortable of ways. His head was pounding with the beat of a thousand drums. He slowly opened his eyes. It was mostly dark. There wasn’t a star in the sky. The faint glow of a streetlight shone down, casting shadows onto the wall closest him on the street. What was he doing here? 

He went to sit up, feeling his arm unwilling to move at his command. He looked down and saw the head of a woman resting in the crook of his elbow, blood from the gash in her neck trickling down onto his hand. His heartbeat sped up as he stared in open-mouthed terror. A small sound of disbelief and disgust escaped. What? Who? How? The woman’s throat had been slit and red pooled around her head, down her shoulders, and onto his shirt. 

He took several deep breaths and started undoing the buttons of it with his free hand. He wrenched off the shirt, sponging it to the ground to soak up the woman’s blood. He tried to think but he had no idea who she was. Were they involved in a relationship? Was she a relative of his? Had they been in some sort of accident? What could do this other than a knife? Had he been the one to use the knife? He continued mopping up the blood, the horror of the situation starting to hit home and tears stinging the back of his eyes. 

Sirens blared in the distance. Breath caught in his throat and he looked about the street for somewhere to go, bending his body upwards before making it onto his feet. He couldn’t just leave her here, but he had to escape. They’d find him, wouldn’t they? They’d find him and lock him up and he didn’t even know if he’d done anything, wasn’t even sure if he was the type of person who would do anything. Didn’t even know who he was at all.

There was no time for movement. A marked police car swung into the street at one end, a bronze Ford Cortina at the other. He was surrounded. He stood in the blare of headlights. No shirt, blood on his trousers and all over his hands held high in the air. He could feel a tear escape down his cheek. Could feel the steady beating of his heart against his ribcage. Knew this was it. 

That’s when he heard an inquisitive voice call, “Sam?” A man walked forward, tan camel-hair coat and dark blond hair. The partially undressed younger man looked around. Perhaps he was talking to one of the other police officers. But then the other person stared him straight in the eyes and repeated his query. “Sam? What’s going on here?” 

If only he knew. Supposing for just a second that this authoritarian-looking person knew him, he opened his mouth a few times to speak before finally asking what he needed to ask, “Am I Sam?”

* * *

Gene surveyed the rugged up DI with a frown creasing his brow. This was not a good place to be. This was a God-awful place to be. For all intents and purposes, DI Sam Tyler was completely loopy, but now he appeared to be completely loopy and missing more than a few screws. Here the man sat, covered in blood, at a crime scene, claiming not to know who he was. He claimed not to know who Gene was. He claimed to know nothing. Now, Gene knew that he’d come to him from Hyde already an imperfect package, but he usually kept it together enough to remember his name. The Guv stormed over and told the plonk to go elsewhere. He sat next to Sam on the bonnet of the car.

“Right, Sammy-boy. The sooner we sort out that nasty bump on your head, the sooner you can tell us what you’ve witnessed.”

“I haven’t witnessed nowt, as far as I’m concerned,” the unwitting Sam replied, full of confused hostility.

“Well, that’s not strictly true is it? You must have witnessed something. It’s bloody difficult to find yourself snuggled up with a murder victim in the middle of a street without witnessing something,” Gene said, using his best mind-reading gaze.

“I might have murdered her, mightn’t I? I could be a raving serial killer.”

“You’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re my DI. I do not have serial killers working under me. That’s Litton’s department.”

“You’re talking gibberish. Are you trying to tell me I’m a cop like you?” 

“Not exactly like me, but you’re a cop, yeah, as you well know.”

“Don’t know anything of the sort. Don’t know anything,” Sam said in surly response. He tightened the rug around himself and dropped his chin to his chest. 

Gene stared at Sam again, noting the oblivious nature of his gaze, the differing posture. He wasn’t even speaking as he normally did, with just slightly more emphasis on his regional brogue and less insistence on using overly complicated words. But he still displayed constant resistance to the Guv, that was something a steam roller couldn’t beat out of him. 

Ray sauntered over, a notebook in his hand. “D’you want us to take any more notes, Guv? We’ve got a few pages full, an especially detailed account of how our friend here was caught.”

“You mean found, Ray,” Gene said somewhat wearily.

“Caught, found, same result,” Ray replied with a smirk.

“Not entirely. Has all of the evidence been bagged?”

There was an air of indignance in Ray’s response. “Chris is doing that now, Guv.”

“Chris?” 

“Yeah. The kid’s not as useless as you like to make out.” 

“I’ve never said he was useless. Okay, maybe once. Twice at most. Ray, make sure everything is done carefully. And I do not want the press getting wind of this, do you hear me? Ensure that the press are kept well away.”

Gene turned his attention back to Sam as Ray walked away. He glanced around the scene and pursed his lips in thought. There were no bloodied footprints. Fingerprints would be difficult to find. The knife that had taken the life of that young woman could be anywhere, but was most likely now in the canal. All they really had was Sam and they didn’t even have him fully. 

“I better take you back to your flat,” Gene said, standing up and offering his hand to Sam, who looked at it cautiously before grasping hold. “But let me call my missus first, tell her I won’t be home.”

“You’re married. And there I was thinking you and me were bum buddies,” Sam said with a smirk.

“You _what_?” Gene retaliated, raising a hand threateningly.

“You’re so protective of me and I’ve seen your eyes travelling down my masculine form,” Sam continued, grinning wider. He paused as Gene’s face became more red with rage. “I’m winding you up.”

“And I’ll be winding you up and twisting your head off if you go on like that, Tyler,” Gene replied. 

“I wouldn’t threaten me like that if I were you. You don’t know that I couldn’t kill you in your sleep,” Sam said as he gestured towards the traces of blood still on the asphalt.

“Actually, I do. You are not the murdering type, Sam Tyler. The sooner you get that thick notion out of your head, the better.”

Gene took them to the nearest payphone, where he discussed the case in loose terms with his wife, and they climbed into the Ford Cortina. He noticed that Sam was shivering so he offered him his coat and cursed as he realised how cold it was. 

“One of these days they’re going to get decent heating in one of these things,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Along with wings so we can fly and giant inflatable devices so we can float,” Sam said. Gene thought that this was just like the crazy future talk he was usually blathering on about, but this time he was clearly being facetious.

In Sam’s flat, Gene surveyed the space available. 

“Anything familiar here?”

“Nope.”

“Right. You go have a shower. We’ll get some shut-eye, you on the bed, me on the sofa and in the morning you’ll remember all of the important details of the case and we’ll pretend like today never happened.”

“And what if I don’t remember?”

“You will. It’s just confusion and er, whatsits… that medical thing… concussion. You’ll be right as rain tomorrow, you mark my words.”

* * *

Gene didn’t get much sleep. The sofa was not what you would call comfortable bedding and he felt slightly sick to his stomach, like he’d had a bad curry, or he sensed impending doom. Throughout the night he’d had the desperate urge to go use the loo, but he hadn’t wanted to wake Sam, just in case he cocked up the healing process. It was of a reasonable hour to be up, though, so he padded about quiet as possible, performing his ablutions and making coffee. He’d just finished stirring when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Nearly made him jump out of his skin. 

“Morning,” he said gruffly. He stopped himself from interrogating, even though he wanted to ask an array of questions; ‘Do you remember anything? What do you remember? How’s your head feeling? Is it spongy? What’s up with your sofa? Can’t you afford a better one?’

“ ‘allo Guv’ner,” Sam replied in cockney twang. He gave a malicious little grin. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like a log, and you?”

“Wonderfully, if you’d Adam and Eve it.” 

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Gene stated, lowering his voice threateningly. 

“Wotcher? You must be cream crackered.”

Gene resisted the urge to ball up his fists and instead sidestepped away from Sam, back towards the sofa. 

“The way I figure, all I know about myself is what you can tell me and so far you haven’t told me a thing, so why shouldn’t I just make up my own new personality?” Sam said, pointing at Gene before slouching against the wall.

“If you’re coming up with a personality, the worst place you can decide to go is within the Bow Bells,” Gene replied.

“Like you know.”

“You’re just pandering to a stupid stereotype,” Gene said.

“Oh! You’re one to talk Mister Tough Guy.”

Gene was surprised. He hadn’t thought that Sam came in a flavour that was even more infuriating, but here he was, creating a feeling of intense loathing. See, he didn’t hate Sam, didn’t even come close to hating Sam. He’d even go so far as to say he liked Sam. He found him annoying. He wished he’d shut up. He thought Sam took things too seriously and didn’t understand why he was always trying to antagonize him. But he was considerably more enjoyable to be around than this memory loss version. Sam was passionate about policing, and that was alright, because Gene remembered when he’d been exactly the same way. He still was in differing degrees. 

“We should get to the station as early as possible,” Gene said, concentrating on Sam#8217;s face for a moment and then putting on an expression that was half smile-half grimace. Sam smirked again, as if he’d won a victory, and followed Gene out of the flat and to the Ford Cortina.

At the station, everyone glanced at them whilst pretending not to. A quick look, then a shuffle of papers, perhaps an inconspicuous cough. Gene followed Sam’s gaze around the office, looking for a sign of recognition, but there was nothing. His face was blank. 

“This is your desk. You sit here for a moment whilst I talk to Chris and Ray,” Gene said, gesturing towards the desk closest them with neat piles of paper and glowing lamp. He watched as Sam sat down and started fiddling with the papers. 

Gene walked over to Chris and Ray, who were chatting in the corner but clearly well aware that he and Sam had entered the room. 

“You have ten minutes to give me the facts,” Gene said, somewhat menacingly.

“Apart from the cut throat,” Chris interjected.

“Yeah, apart from the cut throat.” Ray nodded as he spoke. “We’ve yet to check out her place of residence or contact her next of kin.”

“Well what are you doing standing about here, then? Go out there and do your jobs.”

“Yes, Guv.”

“Wait a minute,” Gene said, “where’s the evidence?” 

“Must have left it down mortuary.”

“Fine. I’ll go and collect it in a bit, don’t worry your pretty little heads about it,” Gene growled.

“How’s the boss, Guv?” Chris asked, making a none-too-surreptitious gesture towards Sam, who had been making paper aeroplanes in Gene’s absence.

“Still can’t remember anything. I’ll be ensuring he’s watched at all times so that if and when he does, we will know.”

Chris raised his hand to the back of his head and brushed his hair  
forward nervously. “You don’t think that maybe he should be in  
hospital?”

“No I bloody well do not. Who knows what those quacks will try and do  
to him? He’s best here, in a familiar environment.” Gene watched as  
Chris and Ray ambled off and out the doors of the office. Gene turned  
back to Sam, a dozen paper aeroplanes at his feet, on other desks, by  
the telephone.

“Right, we’re off to the mortuary,” Gene said, taking Sam by the arm before signalling to Sergeant Constable Marlowe to clear up the mess Sam had made.

* * *

There was a faraway glint in Sam’s eye as he surveyed the body on the slab. Gene examined the expression carefully but concluded it told him very little. He picked up the bag of personal effects and items collected at the scene.

He spoke for a few moments with the Pathologist, Oswald. “Is there anything you can tell us?” 

“Her throat was slit,” Oswald replied matter of factly.

“Is that all you have?”

“At this moment in time, yes.”

Gene did his utmost not to tell Oswald he was a waste of space and instead reminded himself that they needed results and it was better to be on friendly terms with the person who might provide them. He waited for Sam to do one of his things where he’d start examining the body himself, smelling the breath and being able to conclusively tell them what she’d had for dinner not just last night, but a week before. Sam didn’t do that. There was no bending down and examining of nails or anything. He just stood there, slumped but rigid.

“When you have more information, I want it sent to me directly,” Gene said with a gentle poke of his finger in the Pathologist’s direction. 

Gene made Sam wait in the hallway as he looked through the victim’s possessions. There wasn’t much there in the way of evidence. He examined her rings, gave close concentration to her gold chain necklace and rifled through her wallet. Amongst the leather he found several cards, one of which caught his attention because of the design. It was very flashy, positively shiny and didn’t look like it had been in the wallet for very long. The sides were perfectly cut, no nicks or rounded edges. 

_Les Showman_  
Show Real Estate  
32 Silk Street  
Telephone 580 6600  


Right. He knew where he was off to today. He’d make sure Sam was safe and sound and do some investigating of his own. Or should he have gone to tell Trisha Morris’s next of kin about her untimely death? Well, it was too late to reverse that decision now. Ray and Chris would do okay. Gene took hold of Sam’s arm again, pushing the other man in the direction of the door.

“You and me are going to pay a visit to WPC Cartwright. She’ll give you a check-up,” Gene stated forcefully. They made it over to the next department, Sam muttering sour nothings all the while.

When Annie Cartwright looked up, there was a great look of worry in her expression. Not just, ‘oh no, I’ve spilt the milk’ worry, or ‘the cat’s been out all night’ worry but more in the direction of ‘my one true love is lost at sea’ worry, and this both disturbed and mildly angered Gene, because he needed her to do her job, and if she was going to get distracted by her feelings for his slim and annoying DI, he didn’t want her involved. Luckily for all involved, she was a smart lass and soon adopted a more professional approach to Sam. 

“I hear you’ve had a nasty accident,” Annie said, standing directly in front of the personality-wounded man and brushing her hand near his face. The Detective Inspector rocked back on his heels. 

Gene gave them a moment, clicked his tongue against his teeth, and left the room.

* * *

She sat him down, gently brushed back his hair, and examined the damage on his scalp. There was a scab forming, about an inch in diameter. Even though some of the blood had clearly been washed away, it didn’t look like it had been cleaned properly. Annie set about getting some alcohol swabs. Her fingers traced through his mousy brown hair as she applied light sweeping pressure over the scab. Sam made various noises of discontent as she got rid of some of the surface gravel and dirt. She started asking Sam probing questions in the guise of making light conversation.

“So, what kinds of things do you remember? Do you remember who the Prime Minister is?”

“Yeah, it’s Edward Heath.”

“And who won the FA Cup?”

“Sunderland,” Sam replied quickly, with a note of disgust.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Blue, I suppose.”

“How old are you?”

“I’d say 37.” 

Annie felt like she should talk to him a bit about who he was, what he liked and that sort of thing to jog his memory. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what to say to him. Should she tell him he was from the future, or only that he thought he was from the future, or not mention the future at all and just concentrate on his positive characteristics? 

So much of what made him the way he was was his oddly fanatical belief in being from another time. It’s what seemed to set him apart from everyone else. He was always going on about ‘where I come from, this wouldn’t happen’ and ‘where I come from, we don’t do that’ and ‘I was four in nineteen-seventy-three, Annie.’ To talk to him about this felt wrong, but not to discuss it with him felt almost immoral. She turned to him and looked him directly in the eye.

“Tell me, Sam. What year were you born?”

“It’s 1973, I’m 37, so that’d be, uh, 1936 wouldn’t it, lovely love?”

“Notice how you had to work that out?”

“Well, of course. I did get conked on the head, sweetheart.”

“Can you not call me sweetheart? I’m WPC Cartwright to you.”

“I’ll call you what I damn well please,” Sam retorted, sneering. 

“This isn’t who you are.”

“No? Well what is, then?”

“You’re… different.”

“Your intelligence terrifies me. Now go get me a tea, there’s a good girl.”

“I’ll make you a tea when you start treating me with some respect,” Annie replied, pushing a hand down through the air as if she was tapping him on the head. It was probably best she was doing it far away from his head, given present circumstances.

“What kind of respect?” Sam asked, tilting his head on one side and making a none-too-secret appraisal of Annie’s figure in uniform. It was not the entirely harmless pass he usually made at her, full of cheeky regard. It was the look that other men in the station gave her, that made her skin feel like it was crawling all over with woodlice. 

She stepped away and tidied up the area. 

“I think we’re done here.”

* * *

**Show Real Estate** was a small place which was dwarfed by the mansion to its right. The other buildings around did not seem to be commercial ventures and Gene vaguely wondered whether they were even allowed to run a business here. The front room was light and airy, with bright primary colours, bright blue carpet and floral decoration as well as lots of photography on the wall. Gene perused the rows of houses as he waited, what he thought was very patiently, for the woman sitting at the back of the room to get off the phone.

“Hello, my name is Celeste. How may I assist you?” The lady finally asked, having hung up the receiver and come towards Gene with a friendly, open expression. She spoke in soft, calming tones.

Gene turned on the charm. “My name is DCI Hunt. I was hoping you could help with some enquiries, love,” he said, brandishing his badge. 

Celeste frowned slightly before her face split into a large smile. “Of course, I’ll do my best. Would you like any tea, coffee?”

“No, thanks. Just answers will be good enough for me.”

“Well, what would you like to know?” Celeste asked, proffering a chair and sitting down herself. She was a good-looking woman of around forty, quite thin and around 5ft 4. She was well kempt and attractively made up. Her clothes were expensive looking, a light yellow medium length skirt, white blouse and yellow fitted jacket. It was all very professional. Gene perched on the edge of his seat, clasping his hands together and leaning forward.

“Do you get a lot of customers? Clientele?” he asked, putting emphasis on the last word as if it were something he never thought he’d say.

“We have a fair amount, yes. Business is a little quiet at the moment, but Les predicts the housing industry and estates are just going to be booming within the next couple of years,” Celeste replied, a frown creasing her brow once more.

“Had many visitors recently? Say, within the last week?” Gene asked casually.

Celeste shook her head and cast her eyes down, “no, can’t say as we have.”

“I don’t suppose you remember a woman in her late twenties, brown hair, green eyes, quite tall?”

“Oh. That sounds like a young lady who was in here yesterday. Trisha, her name was. She was applying for the role of secretary. We’ve only had two applicants, which has surprised both me and Les. Why do you want to know?”

“I’m sorry to say that Trisha was found dead in the small hours of the morning. Murdered.”

“That’s terrible news. I’m so sorry,” Celeste said, her eyes widening. She brought her hand to her mouth and turned away slightly in her chair. 

Gene gave a compassionate nod. “Would I be able to speak to Mr. Showman?”

“Of course. He won’t be able to give you any more information, I’m afraid.”

“I expect not. Still, it’s good to get these things sorted,” Gene replied, still nodding gently. 

Celeste knocked on the door behind where her desk had been. “Les, there’s a DCI Hunt here to see you about one of the secretary applicants we saw yesterday,” she called, before adding more quietly, “she’s been murdered.”

After a moment, a muted response came through the door. “Send him in.”

Gene entered Les Showman’s office with an inquisitive glance and brash authority. He placed his hands on his hips and stood ready for an exchange or battle of wits. Les Showman himself stood and held his hand out for Gene to shake. He was tall, stocky, possessed of a round gut which protruded out of his form in a ludicrously unrealistic fashion. His bright green trousers were slung low on his hips. The blue and grey striped shirt he was wearing had the top two buttons unbuttoned and a row of beads could be seen amidst greying chest hair. The hair atop his head was long and wavy, bright silver, but his face didn’t look any older than Gene’s. Finding his hand in the other man’s, Gene shook it briefly.

“As Celeste said, I’m here about Trisha Morris. She applied for a job here yesterday, I believe,” Gene started, getting straight to the point. 

“Yes, that’s right,” Les replied. He had a high and whiny voice quite at odds with his appearance. 

“Can you give me the details of what you discussed with her?”

“Basically she just gave me a brief _precis_ of her work history, we talked about what she’d have to do and we made some comments on the weather,” Les replied, raising his hands in a shrug.

“Is that it?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

“What sort of job interview is that?”

“I’m not looking for a rocket scientist, DCI Hunt. I just need someone who can answer phones now that Celeste is joining me in selling the ‘ouses. Miss Morris seemed capable enough, she was friendly and if I might be frank, a bit of alright. The type of person you’d want around your office.”

“So you were thinking of hiring her, then?”

“Yeah. I gave her one of my cards in case she wanted to contact me for any reason. I said I’d get back in touch with her. Then I sent her on her merry way. The other bag who applied was ugly as a weasel. Trisha was the one for the job. It’s a shame about what’s happened.”

Gene’s reply was as cold as his stare. “Yes, it is.” He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, moving to put them in his pockets. “If I need any more information, Mr. Showman, I’ll either send one of my officers around or give you a bell. Make sure you’re ready for any questions we may or may not have.”

“Okay, will do. If you don’t mind, I have to be off to an urgent business meeting.”

Gene left Show Real Estate like a bear looking for honey. There was determination in the gait of his stride as he crossed the street to the car. This may have been a dead-end, but he was not giving up. 

* * *

“Guv,” Ray said, hailing Gene and forcing him to stop his coffee cup mid-air. “We’re back.”

“Do you know, Ray, it might surprise you to learn that I have this magical super power. It’s called sight.”

“Yeah, well, we’re back with information,” Ray said, obviously attempting to hide a look of persecution at Gene’s waspishness.

“Right, let’s have at it, then.”

“Her parents were really shocked,” Ray said first, before pausing.

“And?”

“And spent the next half hour blaming me and Chris.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, it wasn’t very pleasant, Guv.”

“Tell you what. Next time Sam wakes up with a murdered woman next to him, I’ll send him to break the news to her folks. Would that make you happier?” Gene could see that Ray was trying to formulate an acceptable response. He tutted impatiently and took a swig of the coffee which was getting colder by the second.

“Her parents didn’t have any recent photographs of her, but eventually said we could look for anything in her flat. They had spare keys. Unfortunately we didn’t find any photos in her flat, either. In fact, there wasn’t much at her flat which gave us any information. Chris took a bunch of notes and bagged some things he thought might be useful,” Ray said, nervously smoothing down his moustache.

“Okay. How about you get PC Mallows down mortuary to sketch a picture of her?”

“That’s a good idea, Guv.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, though I _am_ that,” Gene replied. “I keep thinking we should give Mallows an official title. Chief of Identification or something equally important sounding but ridiculous.”

“Last christmas party we called him Drawy McDraw,” Ray said, staring off into space for a short time. 

“What did her neighbours say?”

“Said she was a lovely girl and couldn’t think of why anyone would want to murder her. She’s apparently not got any enemies. She has never been seen fighting anyone. They haven’t seen anyone new or suspicious lurking round and about.”

“There were no rumours at all?”

“None,” Ray confirmed, shaking his head. 

“No lovers?”

“Not that any of them knew about.”

Gene thought about it for a moment before exhaling deeply.

“Where’s Chris?” 

“Getting some lunch.”

“Fine. You get Mallows onto doing that picture and start making enquiries round Hood street with a couple copies of it in your grubby little mitts, got it? Take Marlowe with you, he should do an alright job.” 

“What about Chris?”

“He’s gonna stay here.”

“Yes Guv,” Ray said before stepping back and then forward again. “Has Sam remembered anything yet?”

“I’d have told you if he did, wouldn’t I?” Gene replied, rolling his eyes. “Once he remembers what happened, we’ll have a much better idea of what went on here. I got uniform to drive the car he was using back to the parking lot so I’m about to give it a look. See if there’s anything useful. Now run along, you’ve momentous work to do.”

* * *

Gene was at the back of the room, sticking the sketch Mallows had made of Trisha Morris on the blackboard. Next to it he’d been writing descriptions of the people he knew she’d encountered in a large spidery scrawl of chalk. It was a technique he’d seen Sam use once or twice and he figured he’d give it a shot, see if it put anything clearer into focus. He’d asked Chris to talk to Sam about some of the cases they’d worked on together. He heard bits and pieces of their conversation. Chris was now talking about the intricate noting system Sam had insisted he start adopting for their files and records. Gene turned around when he noticed that Sam was less than enthralled with these tidbits of trivia. His responses had been becoming slower and he’d clearly faked a yawn. 

“I’ve got something I really need your expertise in, Chris. It’s _long_ and _hard_ ,” Sam said, stretching a leg out in front of himself and stressing emphasis on both the adjectives.

“I could go and get you a file as an example, boss,” Chris replied, confused.

“How about you show me where you keep those files locked away, Chris,” Sam said, smiling at the Detective Constable suggestively, his eyes moving slowly from top to bottom. “I’m sure you’ll be a fine… guide.” Chris backed away quickly and started stuttering incomprehensibly.

“Pay him no mind, Chris. He’s just trying to make you uncomfortable,” Gene called, moving towards them from the blackboard at the back of the room. He could see that Chris was still gazing at Sam warily, like he thought the other man was going to bite. “How about you step into my office?” 

Chris nodded his head quickly and practically skipped into the next room. Gene narrowed his eyes at Sam, whose smile had escalated to giggling and followed Chris. 

“Guv, you don’t suppose he’s actually…” Chris gave a non-descript shrug, “… you know, and due to being doolally is just forgetting to cover it up?”

“I can almost guarantee that he’s not,” Gene replied, looking through the blind at Sam, who was now in fits of laughter.

“Well, how do you know for sure?”

Gene turned back to Chris with a worldly roll of the eyes. “Raucous wild sex with an ‘ooker, for one.”

“To be fair, he was drugged.”

“To be even more fair, the temptation had to have been there in the first place, or why else would she have been at his flat, eh?”

“By all accounts, there’d been reports of the same with my Uncle Jesse, but that didn’t stop him from being…” Chris finally noticed the death-stare that Gene had been silently winging his way and closed his mouth. “I’ll be down canteen, Guv,” he said meekly, before exiting the room. 

Gene went out and rounded on Sam. “Look, why don’t you just accept the help people are trying to give you?”

“Help? You call talking about codewords and shorthand and proper processes and relating junk _help_? That kid is dull as a dishrag. I can hardly believe he’s CID, let alone that I have to work with him all the time. You lot can’t help me. By the sounds of it, none of you have any bloody idea who the hell I am. Is it any wonder I’m at a loss of identity myself?”

Gene cursed loudly before going back to his display of information. 

* * *

He hated everyone. He didn’t know how he worked here day in day out, but he suspected it involved a lot of personal sacrifice. He kept getting told off, by the rude and thuggish Gene Hunt, by that WPC. He was sick of it. Sam didn’t even know what he was doing here. He wasn’t helping them any, and he certainly wasn’t being helped in return. 

The best that people could say to him was that “he was different.” He was different. Well, of course he was _different_ , he usually knew vital details about his life. Simple things like where he went to school and what he liked to eat. He’d been asked a series of stupid questions, been given nothing in return, and they expected him to co-operate like some gutless wonder. He was sick of it. Sick of being treated like a child. Sick of hearing them go on about who he was supposed to be in wildly ambiguous ways. And then expected to bend over like a good little boy.

He wanted to see one of them wake up next to a dead body. To feel the cooling blood of another human being cascade down their arm. And not know if they knew that person, or anything else for that matter. How easy did they think it was for him, being completely in the dark as to what he was doing here and what he was supposed to do? 

He sat in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, finding his eyes travelling from person to object to person again. It was then that he realised Gene had stepped near him and was trying to gain his attention. 

“What do you want?”

“I’ve come to ask you some questions.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

Gene sat next to him. He mirrored his actions and crossed his arms, pushing a leg up onto the chair in front. 

“Are we friends?”

“I’m sorry? What? You’re asking _me_?”

“Yeah, I’m asking you. Are we friends, do you think?”

“I only just met you, and to be frank, you haven’t given me a very good first impression,” Sam replied.

“You haven’t just met me, you’ve been here for months. I’m asking you for your gut reaction. D’you think that when you’re normally in your right mind, we’re friends?” Gene reiterated.

Sam paused for a moment. He gave it some thought. Could they be friends? He didn’t think they could. Gene was dominating, authoritative, and Sam felt that _he_ wanted to be dominant, in charge. He craved power. Of course, this might just be a temporary thing, because he was essentially so helpless.

“No. We’re not friends,” Sam said after a time. He noted how Gene raised his eyebrows. “How far wrong am I?”

“We’ve shared many a pint, played poker and darts together and saved each other’s lives on at least three separate occasions,” Gene said, “we’ve also been involved in several punch-ups, rarely see eye-to-eye on any issue, and you once held a gun to my head.” 

Sam laughed. “So is that a yes or a no?”

“We’re friends. We’re not best friends and I don’t go around extolling your virtues to anyone willing to listen, but I trust you. All you have to do is trust me. You’re expecting people to give you easy answers. They can’t do that. You have to ask the questions yourself. Don’t just anticipate that the person standing across from you is necessarily out to get you. Examine your instincts.”

“Instincts aren’t worth much without knowledge.”

“That’s not true. In policing, 80% of what you do is based on instinct. The rest is subject to change. And believe it or not, you’re a good police officer. People respect you. We all think you’re nuts because you keep telling us new ways of doing things. You get interested in details which no self-respecting officer of the law would be interested in. And sometimes it seems like you’re contrary just to be contrary. But you get the job done and more often than not, you get it done well.”

“Thanks, Gene,” Sam said. He wasn’t sure the word was adequate but it would have to do.

“What for?”

“That’s the most detail I’ve been given yet.”

“There’s not much point swamping you with detail if you don’t have the feeling, don’t you get that? You have to actively try to figure things out yourself too.” Gene bowed his head slightly and stared at Sam as if looking straight into his mind. “Instead of swanning around making a deliberate arse of yourself for licks and kicks.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good. Because as much as it pains me to say it, Tyler, I need your special brand of stick-it-in-yer-face-I’m-from-Hyde knowledge.”

Sam raised his hand to his face as Gene walked back to the blackboard he was working at. Sam dragged his hand down from his forehead to his chin. Okay, so maybe he didn’t hate everyone.

* * *

Gene surveyed the office with detached interest. He’d sent several teams out to find anything that they could use to connect the dots of this murder, but so far there’d been no luck. He’d been thrilled to bits when he’d found a tape deck in the car Sam had been in, was sure that it would provide him with something new to work with, but it turned out it’d been a bust. There was nothing that could contribute to their investigation on the tape inside. Instead, there was several minutes of incessant wailing the likes of which Gene hadn’t heard before. He didn’t know the songs Sam had apparently been singing, and didn’t want to either, if that’s how they always sounded.

It was getting to the end of the day. They had shockingly little information and things were just seeming a bit too much like hard work. Gene had fond notions of popping down Railway Arms and knocking a few back before heading home. Of course, he couldn’t do that. No, he’d be keeping Sam company for another night. He’d already arranged it with his wife. 

He was perched on one of the desks going through the items Chris had brought back from Trisha Morris’s flat. So far he hadn’t seen anything engaging or illuminating. Her diary was straight-forward and if truth be told, unbelievably boring. It consisted of “I met Susan for lunch,” type entries that rattled on about the smallest details, Trisha’s constant quest for a bloke who wouldn’t ‘treat her like day old popcorn’ and that sort of thing. 

“Considering he’s no idea who he is,” Chris was saying to Phyllis confidentially, “you’d think that’d make him normal, what with the stuff he’s usually raving on about – but if anything, he’s even weirder.”

Sam walked into the office and nodded his head at Chris in acknowledgement. Luckily, he’d been considerably less of a nuisance, though he hadn’t been much of a help either. He sat down at one of the tables and quietly read some case notes. Phyllis went back to get another stack of files for him to peruse. The phone rang and Gene ignored it. There was every chance it was Jackie Queen, breaking onto a brilliant news story her readers would delight in. He hoped it wasn’t. 

“Guv, it’s Ray,” Chris said, holding the receiver out. 

Gene took the phone straight away. Must be important if Ray was using a telephone box to tell him. 

“Yes, Ray?” Gene asked.

“I’ve a witness who saw a young man arguing with Trisha Morris off Oldham road last night, six o’clock. I even know where he lives. Want me to bring him in, Guv?”

“Do you even need to ask, Ray? Yes. Bring him.” Gene put the phone down and smiled his first genuine smile for the day. 

* * *

Harold Foster was a young man no older than twenty-two. He had a series of small cuts down his left cheek, was wearing dirty, shabby clothing and was decidedly nervous. Ray had told him why he was here, then. That much was obvious.

“Harold. Or is it Harry? Hairy? Hazza?” Gene asked, sitting down at the desk in the Lost & Found and crossing his arms. “I have a feeling you can give me some assistance. And you better pray that you do, or there’s to be a plaque up on my wall with your nasty little head stapled on.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn’t looked up at Gene yet. He had his eyes directed only towards the black surface of the desk. He rolled his two index fingers around each other incessantly, tilting his head from side to side in jerky, stilted movements. 

“It’s Harry and I… I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” he said. Gene noted how he’d looked to the side. Could see the tension rippling from one shaky action to the next. He certainly did know what Gene was talking about. 

“I’m talking, Harry, about murder. Trisha Morris, what can you tell me about her?”

“Nothing.” 

“I am not renowned for my patience, Harry. Not in the slightest. In fact, most would say the reverse.” Gene leaned forward. He shouted the next line. “I want answers and I want them now.”

“I barely know her,” the other man returned, bouncing his knee up and down rapidly. 

“So you do know her, then?” Gene replied. It wasn’t really a question. He tapped the table with his pen in heavy rhythmic staccato.

“Yeah. We used to work together,” Harry said, “For Lloyd and Hill. Trisha was secretary, I was gopher.”

“Gopher? You used to dig holes? What would Lawyers need with that?” 

“No, you know what I mean. I… I used to fetch and deliver documents for them.” 

“What were you and Trisha Morris arguing about last night?”

“Nothing.”

“It can’t have been nothing, Harry, or you wouldn’t be here. I repeat. What were you and Trisha Morris arguing about last night?”

Harry shook his head, his mouth opening out into a wide grimace as he took in a large breath that whistled through his teeth. His sandy blond hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away before giving Gene a furtive glance.

“I wanted to see her. Wanted to take her out. She refused. Laughed in my face. Said I was a kid.”

“I bet that made you really angry, didn’t it?” Gene said, lowering his voice but adopting a soothing, sympathetic tone. “You wanted to throw her rejection back at her.” 

“Well, yeah,” Harry murmured, nodding his head in time to Gene’s pen. He seemed to realise the consequence of his words. His eyes opened wide and his mouth formed a circle. “But not enough to murder her. I couldn’t do that.” 

Gene leaned back and thrust his legs forward. “And why should I believe you?” 

Harry raised his hands to his face, screwing his eyes up and breathing through his teeth again. “I… I don’t know. All’s I know is that I’m telling the truth. I wouldn’t kill Trisha. I liked ‘er.”

“And what about those scratches?” Gene asked, pointing lazily.

“Stray bloody cat, wasn’t it? Launched right at my face.” 

Gene slammed his hand down on the table, flat. The noise echoed throughout the room. “Where were you after your very public encounter with Trisha?” 

“Went back home and watched the end of Wimbledon semi-final with my mum,” Harry said. 

“Oh really? Who was playing?”

“Roger Taylor. He lost to Kodeš in five sets. Bloody useless. He’d been doing so well, too.”

“Can you remember the score?”

“Not all of it. I remember that it started off 6-1 but ended 7-5, though,” Harry said. His leg still bounced distractingly, but his voice was calmer now. 

“I’m going to be talking to your mum, you know that don’t you?” Gene said. Harry nodded. Gene inwardly seethed. “Do you know why anyone would want to kill Trisha?” he asked, already knowing what the answer would be.

“N… no. No I don’t,” Harry said, shaking his head. 

Gene left the room in a huff. 

* * *

“Can I ask you a question?” Sam asked, picking up a chip.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do so for quite some time now,” Gene replied, shoving a piece of haddock in his mouth. 

“Do you prefer salt and vinegar, or tomato ketchup?”

“Salt and vinegar, of course, as if there were any other,” Gene said in mock defence.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam added. “I think.”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever seen you with oodles of ketchup.”

“No?”

“No,” Gene clarified.

They were sat across from each other in Sam’s lounge, a newspaper  
packet of fish and chips open between them. The dull light cast shadows  
along the walls. Gene had one arm slung along the back of the sofa and  
was pushing his shoulders up and down to ease the tension in his  
muscles. If he thought about it, he realised it had been an  
exceptionally long day.

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Least I’m consistent,” Sam said, shrugging softly.

“Consistency is your middle name.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I bet your middle name’s Leslie or something. No, no. Even better. Marion. Sam Marion Tyler.”

“You don’t know?” Sam asked, tilting his head to one side.

“Not a clue.”

“What’s your middle name, then?”

Gene thought about it for a moment and then answered very casually. “Gene is my middle name.”

“Yeah? What’s your first?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Why would I tell you?” Gene asked, incredulously.

“To make me feel better about my unfortunate predicament,” Sam replied. 

“You have to promise me that you will never breathe a word to another soul, living or dead,” Gene said, poking a chip in Sam’s direction.

“I swear on my mother’s grave. I’ve no idea if she’s in her grave yet, but if she is, I swear upon it.”

“I’m only telling you this in the interests of sharing information, making you feel comfortable enough that you might start getting your memory back, understand?” 

“Yes, I understand,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. He moved forward a little bit, feigning boyish excitement. “Go on then, what is it?”

“Holman,” Gene said simply.

“What?”

“I’m not repeating it.”

“What kind of name is Holman when it’s at home?” Sam asked, raising his hands as if holding a bowl.

“It’s after a famous painter. William Holman Hunt. My parents thought it would be good for a lark, like. I’m Holman Eugene Hunt. Or Gene Hunt to those who want to live.” 

“That’s absurd,” Sam said, laughing. He adopted the sing-song voice of a ten year old boy. “Your name is stupid.” 

“That’s rich, coming from someone whose middle name is that of a girly-girl. Marion. Hah!”

“We don’t know that my middle name _is_ Marion,” Sam said indignantly.

“We do now.” 

“Why didn’t your parents just call you William?” Sam asked, wiping his fingers on his trousers.

“Don’t ask me.”

Gene picked up the now empty paper, stood, and put it in the bin. He turned back to Sam to see the other man still grinning like a maniac. That, right there, was instant regret. He usually chose not to tell anyone about his unfortunate full name, with good reason. It immediately diminished respect. 

Gene sat back down. “Don’t suppose you’ve any other questions?”

“Why did I once put a gun to your head? I’m guessing it wasn’t because I wanted to learn the name on your birth certificate,” Sam replied, cracking his knuckles before raising his index finger to his temple. He rested his head on his hand. 

“It was a tricky situation,” Gene said. He chose his next words carefully. “We had a suspect that you believed was innocent. You thought I was going to make the situation worse.” 

“What was so special about this suspect? Was it a woman?”

“No, it was a man.”

“I’ve only been joking,” Sam said quickly. 

Gene smirked. “Nothing like that.” He paused for a while, gathering his thoughts. “To be honest, I don’t exactly know why that suspect was so important to you. We haven’t talked about it since it happened.”

“I get the feeling we don’t talk a lot,” Sam said. He pushed air through rounded lips and ballooned his cheeks. 

“Well, we’ve a job to perform. Can’t spend the whole day yapping. Tell you what. Since you’re so obsessed with the fine details, one peculiarity I can tell you is that you like Asian food. We went to Rusholme for dinner once, at a curry-house you called ‘the real deal’ and you had some odd Asian lettuce-like stuff you’d been eating in the car before you got bonked on the head.”

“That’s… okay, yeah, I can… hmmm,” Sam replied. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a fount of knowledge, d’you know that?”

Gene reflected that Sam was starting to sound more and more like himself. Perhaps this was actually working. Well, it had to eventually, didn’t it? No-one forgot who they were forever. Sooner or later, Sam would have to rediscover himself and when he did… well, when he did, they could go back to their normal lives. If such things existed.

“Why don’t we see what’s on the box?” Gene asked, already standing near the on switch.

* * *

Throughout his years of policework, Gene Hunt had perfected a glare. It was a glare that said “you are the muck on my shoe and I never want to speak to you again,” all within a second. It was with this glare that he confronted DCI Brandon. 

“I’ve only been given a day,” he said, throwing his hands out wide before resting them neatly at his sides. 

“Superintendent Rathbone wants me to oversee the investigation, Hunt. He thinks you’re too close to the case,” Brandon said. He was taller than Gene, and much younger too. He was younger than Sam, even. He had that keen youthful enthusiasm that came with knowledge of rules and regulations but lack of experience.

Gene yelled a few choice words before storming out of the office. Brandon followed behind him, shaking his head as if that was some kind of consolation. 

“It’s just this once. Be thankful he’s not ousting you for good.”

Gene rounded on him, body thrusting forward and head cracking to one side. “You were Litton’s number one DI a couple of years ago. Now look at you. Playing with the big boys. Lucky you.” 

“A testament to the fact I did my job a hell of a lot better than _your_ number one DI, Hunt,” Brandon said with a self-satisfying smirk. Gene’s hand twitched at his side. He scrunched up his nose and bared his teeth in a primitive display of Alpha Male. “I’m going to want to interview him, you know.”

Gene knew there was nothing he could say. He knew that the actions he very desperately wanted to take would likely make the situation worse. There was no obvious recourse. Gene would have to surrender control. But that did not mean that he was going to roll over like some excitable puppy, happy to do whatever his master wished. He was going to fight his way through. 

Oh he knew how it went, he’d played this game himself. Saying that he was too involved in the case was just another way of saying that he was devoting too much time and too many resources to it. Like it was a fair cop to give him a day in which to work to get results, and then punish him when he didn’t quite succeed. Yes, do your damnedest to get the information you need, but only for a limited amount of time. There was a suitable period of investigation and then that was it. The case unsolved? So what? It got filed away in a little box marked done. 

It almost took more than he was willing to sacrifice, but Gene stepped aside and started walking to the canteen. He wanted to brief his team before handing them over. After opening the doors and stepping inside, it was obvious to him that everyone knew the current situation. Worse than a bunch of fishwives, the police. Any topic could be a hot topic, and everybody had to know every infinitesimal detail of everybody else’s business.

“By the looks of you, you’re all aware that DCI Brandon is now the one to go to for paperclips and a good kick up the arse,” Gene announced to the room. There was a murmur of laughter from all in attendance. “That means, if you’re going to hassle me, you better bloody well have a fantastic reason. In extreme cases, you may even need a bodyguard. Good day.”

“What does this mean?” Sam asked, panic clearly evident in his tone. 

“It means, Sammy-boy, that you and me are going to get out of here and do some investigative work of our own.” 

* * *

Sam ruffled his hand through his hair and leaned back in the car. He was trying to bring his mind back to a time before waking up next to Trisha. He’d been trying periodically since he and Gene’d had their little heart to heart, but every single time he did so, he came up against a block. It was grey and rough, like sandpaper. And it felt like it concealed a chasm of nothing. 

The night before he’d been dreaming. When he’d woken up he’d thought “great, this is it, I’m getting my memory back!” but it hadn’t been that at all. They must have been watching an old science fiction film before he’d drifted off, because he’d had stupid scenes playing in his head about being able to talk to people through the television and of being able to carry a phone with him at all times, no matter where he was, calling people. It had felt so real. It was so ludicrous it was almost funny, except that it made him want to cry.

Sam was still musing to himself when he realised there was a Gene-shaped figure by his door. Gene tapped on the roof of the Cortina, signalling to Sam to come out. Sam waited for him to move and opened the door. He followed Gene down the street before they stopped in front of a dull-looking grey building.

"So what are we doing here, then?" he asked, adjusting his coat and looking quizzically at Gene.

"We're going to get you looked at by someone with more medical training than WPC Cartwright," replied the Guv, a nearly imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, as if to say 'okay, so we should probably have done this before.'

Sam shook his head, negativity etched in his posture. "No. I don't want that."

"Don't be a wuss. The worst they could do to you is stick a needle in your bum," Gene said, hand reaching out to take Sam by the arm as usual. Sam reeled back and shook his head again. He started walking back to the car. Gene must have picked up pace, because within a moment he was standing in front of Sam, holding his hand out to stop him.

"Oy. You. Back the other way," he said forcefully.

"That is not the worst they could do to me, Gene," Sam said, continuing the earlier conversation. Gene rolled his eyes, but Sam knew that there had been good reason he hadn't been seen by a Doctor a lot sooner, so Gene was completely aware of the inherent dangers of the action. "You didn't want me to see someone with medical training before. Why now?"

"Because, Sam. The stakes just got upped. If we can figure out what happened to Trisha Morris before the middle of the day, just think about how much we'll show Brandon up."

"Oh, so it's all some sort of childish competition? Gee, thanks Gene. It's nice to know that you're concerned for my welfare."

"Hey. If I weren't concerned about your bloody welfare, I'd have left you half-naked on Hood street. I'd have interrogated you and had you banged up."

"Well why didn't you then? It would have made your life a lot easier, wouldn't it? You'd never have been shoved to the side by the Super."

"We stick by our own. Haven't you even begun to get that yet? We're not backstabbers. You were in trouble, I tried to make things easier for you. You repaid me by cracking onto anything in a skirt or trousers for a laugh," Sam raised a hand to his head and stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak, but Gene continued. "And I still haven't clocked you round the earhole for starting this whole mess in the first place. So before you start saying things like I'm unconcerned about your welfare, how about you examine your own behaviour in this deal."

"You left me on my own for hours. I was confused. I still am confused. You expected me to instantly trust you, but how am I supposed to do that, hey, if I can't even trust myself?"

"So how come you don't want to at least see what the Doctor's gonna say? This might be some simple, stupid little thing. Get tapped on the knee and it all comes flooding back."

"Because."

"Because?"

"Because I'm scared," Sam finished with a dejected lowering of the head.

Sam let himself be lead into the Doctor's office. He'd hoped the grey was only limited to the exterior, but he'd been wrong. The walls of the waiting room were grey too - lighter in tone, but somehow even more depressing. There was a solitary potted plant in the corner which looked worse for wear. It was either not getting enough water, or it was getting too much. Its leaves were dropping and turning yellow. Sam reflected that this wasn't an awfully encouraging sign.

"Doctor Flint will see you now," the lady at the reception desk said with a curt nod.

"That was quick," Sam remarked. Gene just nodded. He looked like he was going to stay in the waiting room, legs folded beneath the chair and fingers crossed together resting on his stomach. Then he seemed to think better of it and followed Sam down the corridor that had been indicated.

The examination room was just as cheerful as the waiting room. Sam was asked to sit and explain the situation. He did the best that he could. Doctor Flint kept looking at Gene like he didn't want him there but was too scared to tell him to go. For his part, Gene was standing with both his hands on his hips, legs set wide.

"You should have been seen by a Doctor as soon as you were found," Flint said patronisingly.

"Tell him," Sam said, nodding his head in Gene's direction. Flint turned around to look at Gene and then back at Sam with a small shake. He proceeded to test Sam's reflexes and shine a light in his eyes. He examined his ears. He got up behind Sam and looked at the wound.

"It's not as bad a contusion as I would have expected," he murmured. "Been feeling dizzy? Nauseous?"

"No and no," Sam replied.

"Hmmm," Flint hummed. He stood in front of Sam again. "And you have no memory before waking up next to the... person, you say?"

"None. Well, I remember general details. You know. How much a pack of crisps costs and how many days there are in a year."

"Ahhh. Have you tried writing down all of those things you know? Trying to connect them with knowledge that is more specific?"

"No," Sam said, "that's a bit daft. I mean, I know _a lot_ , just nothing about me."

"That's because you have amnesia."

"Yeah."

"There's not much I can do, I'm afraid. Your head wound isn't serious and you appear to be functioning normally. The best I can advise is that you continue to do small memory exercises, you know, some crosswords and the such like, and wait for your memory to come back," Flint said with a wave in the air. "I can't say when it _will_ come back. There are some cases in which it takes years." Sam gave a pointed look towards Gene, who pushed his lips forward and scowled.

They left the practice. Sam stopped a mere inches from Gene and plastered an artificially wide grin on his face. "Well! That was useful."

"Cut the sarcasm, Tyler. At least now we know for sure. We haven't been doing anything wrong. See? No neglect at all. Everything is tickety-boo."

There wasn't any vehemence in his words, but Sam felt the need to say them all the same. "I hate you."

* * *

She felt like she’d spent the whole day running around like a headless turkey. It had been sort out this, sort out that. She hadn’t been able to just sit down and sort things out for herself. It didn’t help that the Guv had nicked off with Sam. She wondered what on earth either of them had been thinking, just leaving the station and letting everyone else deal with the mess. Of course, that was their way wasn’t it? DCI Brandon was furious. He also took that fury out on those who were seemingly innocent, like Chris. Chris who kept coming to her every five minutes to help with his investigation ‘on the hush, like’. 

Chris was still working on the Trisha Morris case, even though officially he was supposed to be working on a robbery with Ray. So far he’d asked Annie about what she thought a possible motive might be from a ‘psycho-ravey’s point of view’, requested that she stash a pile of files he’d collected, and had her standing on a box to re-enact the murder. He was also often asking for her opinions on his theories – some of which had ranged from the ludicrous “maybe it were an animal who escaped from the zoo” to the incredibly plausible “maybe it were a former friend she annoyed and we haven’t had the time or resources to chase them down”.

The phone rang and Annie picked it up, wondering what would be required of her now. She was surprised it was DCI Hunt on the line. 

“WPC Cartwright.”

“Yes, Guv?” 

“I require of you a task of great importance.”

“I’m all ears.” 

“Do you think that you could get a copy of the casefile on the Trisha Morris case, as well as a polaroid picture of her, and lemme see… uh… a pack of digestives?”

“I can try, Guv.”

“Good lass. Right. Keep this on the downlow, but we’ll be at Brown street in the next hour. Have everything ready for us, okay?” 

At that moment, Chris walked into the room. Annie mouthed that she was on the phone with the Guv and Chris furiously signalled for the receiver.

“Guv?”

“Your voice has changed significantly, Cartwright.”

“No, Guv, it’s Chris.” 

“Right. What do you want, Chris?” 

“I’ve got some information which I think you’ll find useful. It’s a bloody nightmare here, Guv. DCI Brandon took Ray and me off the case, but I’ve still been doing my best. Ray’s done a lot too, but he’s sort of covering for me on this robbery we’ve been assigned so-“

“Chris, we’re running out of change here, you’re gonna have to get to the point.”

“I need to see you to tell you fully,” Chris said in a rush. 

“I’ve told WPC Cartwright where we are so that she can give us some stuff. Tell her that you’ll bring it yourself, it’ll make things easier.”

“Yes, Guv. Bye.” 

Annie looked up at Chris inquisitively. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yeah! I wanted to tell you about my big discovery. But first, what was the stuff I’m supposed to take to the Guv?”

* * *

Gene watched as Chris came ambling down the street, munching on a digestive biscuit. The little bastard had already opened the packet. Chris tried to walk with a commanding swagger, but it came off more like he had lead weights in his shoes. He carried a folder and a large grin. 

“Hi Guv,” he said enthusiastically, before looking at Sam somewhat more quietly and saying, “hi Boss.” Sam just nodded his head. Gene took the folder from Chris and checked that it had everything he wanted. “Cosy little position you’ve got here! DCI Brandon is up in arms. Wants you both back at the station immediately.”

“Just as well I don’t have my phone switched on,” Sam said before blinking and shaking his head. 

Gene looked at Sam quizzically, leaning forward a little bit. “What was that?” 

“I… I don’t know. I have no idea what that means.” Sam shook his head again. “Must have been something from that film we were watching. I mean radio, obviously.” 

Gene nodded slowly before turning back to Chris. “What was it you wanted to tell us, Chris?”

“I’ve been doing some more investigation, Guv. I came up with something which I thought was intriguing. Turns out our Trisha went to the same secondary school as DCI Brandon.”

Sam shrugged. “So?” 

“I just thought it was, you know, useful.”

“Thanks for that, Chris,” Gene said dismissively. Chris looked like he was waiting for something. He stood stock still and stared at Gene, but Gene just started rereading the contents of the folder, occasionally making a small sound of interest. Sam smiled up at Chris. Finally, Gene realised Chris wasn’t getting the hint. He looked up. “I expect you’ve got lots of work to do down station.” 

Chris looked a little hurt. He nodded and made his way across the road in haste. He disappeared between two cars. Gene returned to his folder. He’d been reading for around fifteen minutes when he noticed Sam was getting fidgety. He started handing Sam different pieces of information to draw his interest, but Sam merely glanced at them before turning to Gene.

“How often do we do this? Go renegade, I mean. Is it often? What do the other officers say? How do they know we’re not up to something… else?” Sam had that teasing smirk on his face again.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Tyler,” Gene replied, bringing the polaroid from the folder and examining it more closely. “I’ve seen you naked. Even if I was a fairy, I hardly think you’d be my type. I like my roasts to have a bit of meat on their bones.”

Sam choked and spluttered his digestive biscuit all over the dashboard. He turned on Gene in indignation.

“Oh and you think the best I could do is some pock-marked middle aged man who’s seen too many beers?”

“The wife doesn’t complain. Says I’m a stallion in the sack.” Gene grinned as Sam made it clear he didn’t want to continue the conversation. Sam slouched down in his chair with arms crossed and pouted lips. “You’re pre-occupied with sex, you are. Probably because you haven’t had a shag since the Warren incident.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, remember,” Sam said with a roll of his eyes. 

Gene put the folder on the dashboard and poked his tongue forward slightly, trying to decide if this type of thing would be too much for Sam, or whether it would be just enough to snap him out of it. What he’d said before showed promise.

“Alright then, I’ll tell you.”

* * *

They were parked in an entirely different street several blocks away. Sam had a pack of crisps in his hand. He placed a few in his mouth and then made a face.

"I don't think I like smoky bacon. I thought I would, but these are awful." He tossed the packet onto Gene. "Here, you have them."

"You're too generous."

“So this is the place of the kid you interviewed last night?” Sam asked, going for another digestive instead.

“Across the street, yeah. I don’t think he’s our murderer, but there’s definitely more there than he’s telling us,” Gene replied with his mouth full. 

“You’re just gonna… what? Wait? Watch him?” 

“For the moment. You got a problem with that?” 

“No.”

“Good.”

An hour of random chat and keen observation passed. The subject of their surveillance, Harry, wasn’t exactly up to much. He’d been in his home the whole time, doing whatever it was lads like him did on the weekend. Sam thought he was probably watching tv. Sam was of the mind that this entire thing was pointless. 

“What were you expecting to find out here, Gene?” Sam asked after a long yawn. Gene didn’t answer. His attention was drawn by something by the side-door of Harry’s house. Harry was standing there, holding a big, black plastic bag. 

Gene got out of the car and sauntered over. Sam didn’t understand what he was doing. Hadn’t they’d been out of the way for a reason? He wound down his window to try and hear the conversation Gene was having with Harry. Harry’s demeanour had changed from one of apathy as evidenced by the way he held onto the bag of rubbish to one of pure unmitigated terror. He looked up at Gene with eyes that were both wide and shifted rapidly from left to right. Sam saw Gene take something out of his pocket and show it to Harry, who promptly bent over and vomited into the bush nearest them. Sam guessed what it was that Gene displayed. He decided it was time for him to join the party. 

“Ah, Harry. This is Sam. Sam, meet Harry. He knows why Trisha was killed,” Gene said in an oddly cheerful voice. He was putting it on. Or at least Sam hoped he was.

“No, I don’t. I’ve told you lot that. I don’t!” Harry exclaimed, starting to back away. Gene signalled for him to come closer, and he went back to where he’d previously been.

“You know something, Harry,” Gene said, eyes boring into the young man.

“I just…” Harry began, taking a look back at his house. He stuttered his next words. “I just know what Trisha was planning.” 

“And what was that?” 

“I told the other copper. Like I said. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“That’s-” 

Sam interrupted Gene. “Which copper?” he asked hurriedly.

“DCI Br… Brendan?” Harry said uncertainly. 

“Brandon,” Gene corrected. “Can you give us another quick rundown?”

“I… I didn’t tell you everything last night.” 

“That much is obvious.”

“Trisha had some bright idea. She thought she could make lots of dosh in an instant. Something to do with some powerful man and seduction and… blackmail.” 

Sam watched as it was like a light came on in Gene’s mind. The expression on his face immediately flicked over from disgruntled to determined. 

“This is it, Sammy-boy. This is it,” Gene said, clapping him on the back.

“I’m still in the dark here,” Sam replied.

* * *

Superintendent Rathbone wasn’t exactly pleased to see Gene standing before him, acting as if he owned the office. And he certainly didn’t appreciate the way he patronisingly smiled and placed a folder down on his desk in some effort to prove a point. Gene was a thorn in his side, a thorn in his paw, a thorn that needed to be pulled. 

“What do you want, Hunt?” 

“I just wanted to show you something, Frank,” the DCI replied, full of sweetness with a bitter edge. 

“Get on with it, then. I don’t have all day.” 

Hunt tossed a polaroid down onto the desk and he was assaulted with the vision of a lifeless body. Pale, of a bluish-grey hue, hair which once must have been beautiful tangled and matted. 

“What’s this?”

“This is Trisha Morris. You know – the murdered bird in the case you tossed me off.” 

“And?”

“And in my place you put DCI Brandon. Which is airy fairy, right? Except it’s not. Because DCI Brandon is a man who has something to hide. He is a man who used to go to school with her. You’ve cocked up, Frank. Totally and completely. You’ve made an entire balls of the situation.” Hunt leered with amused confidence. He strode from side to side as if parading his victory. 

“You’re building your assumptions on faulty logic, Hunt. I didn’t pick DCI Brandon to take your place. He volunteered.” 

Hunt lunged forward threateningly. “You didn’t even check for any possible reasons that might make him want to do it?”

“Of course not. I simply thought he was acting on the same impulses as everyone else who wants you out of the way.”

“Don’t you get it, Frank?” Hunt said, hand raised and mouth open slightly – set to house any fly that happened to be roaming about. “He could be the murderer. Before she died, Trisha Morris told Harry Foster that she intended to blackmail a prominent man in a position of power. She winds up dead and DCI Joshua Brandon takes on the case, only too happy to prove himself a backstabbing arselicker to all and sundry. You said I had divided loyalties – what about him?”

“Hunt, this may come as some surprise but no-one in a position of power thinks ousting you is any great matter of derision.” Rathbone stood up, leaning with his hands on the desk to meet Hunt eye to eye. “In fact, they practically whoop with joy at the thought of you being put in your place.”

“We-” Hunt went to speak, but Rathbone interrupted him.

“And the reason I’m unconcerned with this issue is that DCI Brandon told me early on about his connection to the Morris case, namely that he didn’t know the girl – him being in the top form and her just starting school.” Hunt opened his mouth again but Rathbone silenced him. “There’s also the little matter that on the night in question, Brandon and few select officers were attending a dinner party with myself that continued on extremely late at night – on the other side of Manchester.” 

“He could have hired someone,” Hunt said, looking very much deflated but determined all the same.

“I do not believe he would have told me all about Foster’s claims had he done so. Hunt, I hardly think I need to explain to you that you’re skating on extraordinarily thin ice. Why don’t you run along and try to help the investigation instead of hindering it.” 

Superintendent Rathbone sat back with a feeling of intense pleasure as Gene and his murderous look stormed out of his office. He thought it would be judicious to partake in some afternoon tea.

* * *

“We’re back at square one,” Gene said to Sam, slumping down in the canteen chair and dragging a hand down his face like he could brush it all off and gain a new appearance. 

“It’ll be alright, though. I mean, it’s not the end of the world,” Sam said with a shrug.

“It’d help if you could remember something, anything about what happened that night,” Gene said, staring at Sam intensely. “Or even if you just remembered anything you know. You’re surprisingly good at all of that scientific mumbo-jumbo. You might find information we hadn’t seen before.”

“Well, I don’t,” Sam said with a stubborn frown. 

“Okay, but maybe if you spent some time really concentrating on it, somewhere in station where you wouldn’t be disturbed by others,” Gene said, gesturing towards the open doors of the canteen nearest them.

“I don’t know why you’re so adamant about this. I don’t even sound a good cop. I mean, getting involved with a go-go dancer?”

“You’re idealistic. It’s as much a benefit as it is a curse, Sam. Go on, find somewhere quiet and safe for a while.”

“You just don’t want Brandon to interview me, do you?” Sam said, anger starting to flare up.

“Frankly? No. We don’t know what his agenda is and I’m not having him taking down one of my officers just to make himself all high and mighty,” Gene replied. 

“Fine. I’ll go. I’ll go off somewhere and _try to remember_. Just for you. How’s that? Do you like that?” 

Gene didn’t have time to complain about the uppity nature of Sam’s response. It seemed to him that little of what he had attempted to accomplish so far had been appreciated. He was starting to think it was best to just give up. Roll over. Take it like a good boy. Not for the first time in his life, Gene had failed. He tried to think of things he could have done differently. Well, from the start, if he’d actually listened to Sam and not worried so much about budgetary constraints, Sam wouldn’t have been alone in that street in the first place. But that wasn’t really his fault. Maybe if he’d just interviewed Sam the conventional way, sent him to the Doctor and been done with it? 

There were no easy answers. Not here, anyway. Gene picked up the newspaper lying on the desk and read for a while. Jackie Queen hadn’t cracked onto the story then. He kicked the chair in front of him just as he looked up to see a figure hovering nearby.

“Gene, I heard that you were back,” Brandon said, sitting across from him. “And that you were entertaining notions of me being a murderer. Really, you give me far too much credit. I wouldn’t have the balls to kill someone and then bring attention to myself by deliberately taking over the investigation.” He smirked.

“I don’t give you any credit, Brandon,” Gene replied, stony faced.

“That’s a shame, that. You might be working for me one day.”

Gene coughed, pretending to conceal artificial laughter. “Unlikely.”

“Where’s your beloved DI? I need a chat with him.”

“Don’t know. He’s off on his own devices.”

“Oh? You don’t have him under lock and key as usual? Most remiss. I’ll go for a lookout, then.” Brandon stood up to leave and had his back turned when Gene used a little bit of sign-language with an unfriendly message. 

Gene stood up also. He might as well just check that Sam was okay before he was going to be interrogated. And maybe time alone had helped him sort something out. Because he wasn’t going to roll over. He went through the station but couldn’t see him anywhere. He hoped he hadn’t skadaddled outside. 

Gene saw Chris wandering in the direction of the Lost & Found and grabbed him by the arm. “Seen Sam?”

“I think he’s in toilet, Guv,” Chris stated.

“I was just in there, he was nowhere to be seen.” 

Chris had the kind of expression which suggested he thought he was committing a grand betrayal. “I saw him go upstairs.”

* * *

The tiles were a murky brown, latest décor in bathrooms across the nation. Sam was at the basin splashing water on his face. He didn’t acknowledge Gene’s presence, just stood with his hands on the counter, head held low, face weary. 

“How’ve you been going, Sammy-boy?” Gene asked, crossing his arms. 

Sam shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“I have been unbelievably patient with you, Sam. But I can’t do it anymore. I need you to give me something I can work with.”

“I’ve tried, okay?” Sam said, his voice higher than usual, the line of his shoulders creating an elegant arc. “I’ve tried and that’s all I can do.”

“A woman was murdered, Sam. I _need you_ to really work at remembering what happened.”

Sam straightened up and threw his hands out wide, no look of remorse on his face. He was emotionless, blunt. “People get murdered. They do. Humans kill other humans. It’s a fact of life.” He laughed. “It’s a fact of death.”

“See, now, the real Sam would _care_ about this. He would be just as angry, and just as driven as I am to find out the truth,” Gene replied, advancing. He stopped a few inches from Sam, looking at him like he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I’m not the real Sam, am I?” Sam said, pushing him away. “I don’t even really know I am this Sam of whom you speak. For all I know this is an elaborate game concocted by cruel-hearted scientists.” 

“You think this is a game? You think it’s a joke?”

“An experiment, maybe.” 

Gene grabbed Sam by the collar and drew him closer. He yelled for maximum effect. “We’ve had this talk too often. There’s no such things as experiments in our line of work, we get it right the first time or we fail. I do not fail and neither shall you.”

Sam lashed out, striking him across the jaw. Gene swung back. Fist connected with flesh, was damaged by bone. Gene shook his hand and had the air crushed out of him as 5ft 10 of DI connected with the trunk of his body. 

He was propelled backwards towards the tiles before he managed to get his footing and rallied towards the other side. He tried to grab Sam in a headlock, but it wasn’t happening. His punches landed on an arm, to the stomach, in thin air. In return he was receiving a reign of blows himself, each one a little bit harder than the next. He was aware of the faint sting on his lower lip, a soreness in general. But it didn’t stop him. He continued to punch, to bend, to kick, every muscle in his body striving to teach Sam a valuable lesson. And Sam Tyler clearly had a similar objective, was only too happy to be kicking and biting and pushing Gene.

There were no deft or co-ordinated movements. It was all blind fury and hitting wherever you could. Not every strike struck, and it didn’t matter. Gene dodged to the left, but Sam followed him, held onto him even, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his head was being yanked to one side by his hair, and he was making attempts to kick Sam hard where it would hurt the most.

Finally, Gene felt power enough to completely throw Sam off. He hurled him across the bathroom and like it was slow motion, watched half-horrified as the back of Sam’s head smashed against the basin counter. Sam’s eyes closed and blood splattered on the checkered tile surface. He slumped onto the floor, unmoving. 

It took Gene a moment to fully realise what had happened. It felt like it took him an hour to get over there to check that Sam was still breathing. He was. His breathing wasn’t even shallow. It was ragged and forced. Sam’s eyes opened slowly as Gene tried to drag him into an upright position and smiled through the blood on his teeth.

“Well, that was fun,” he croaked. “How’re you feeling, Gladys?”

“I’m sorry?” Gene asked, “What did you just call me?”

* * *

He was sitting on a chair holding a pack of fish fingers to his head. It made him wince. 

“How’re you feeling?” Annie asked, as Gene stood slouching in the background watching intently. 

“Like I just got run over by a truck. But I’ll survive,” Sam replied. He looked up at Gene. “Who’d have thought your violent temperament could actually be beneficial?” 

“Sorry,” Gene said with measured emotion. He looked distant, contemplative. 

Sam gestured to the bruise forming around Gene’s eye. “Me too.” 

His memory hadn’t come flooding back completely. It wasn’t like someone had opened a door or lifted a latch and everything had come pouring in. It was more that he remembered certain events, that he knew at his core who he was and as much as this disturbed him in various conflicting ways – it was comforting. 

There were lots of things Sam felt he had to sort out. He had to convince Chris he wasn’t about to propose marriage. He had to help put DCI Brandon in his place. At this stage, the only thing Sam had his mind really set on was solving Trisha Morris’s murder.

“I’m off to the mortuary.”

“You really shouldn’t be up gallivanting about everywhere Sam, you’ve had a nasty knock to the head.”

“If my brains start falling out my ears I’ll come right back, promise.”

“Hold on, I’ll go with you,” Gene said, drawing himself up to his full height.

They walked to the morgue the round-about way, avoiding any corridors which might have them come into contact with those who intended harm. Sam smiled at Oswald when he entered, but Oswald didn’t smile back. 

“Not again. I’ve just been through explaining to the others,” he said straight away, his pencil hovering above the chart in his other hand. Gene pushed his body forward aggressively. Oswald sighed, as if in expectation of a tirade, and clearly decided to delay such a proceeding. “Trisha Morris had diacetylmorphine in her system, five times over the limit the body could reasonably stand.”

“So what? You’re telling me she died of a heroin overdose?” Sam asked, confused.

“No, she died because her throat was slit.”

Sam shook his head and his impatience was evident in the way he brought his eyebrows down and crossed his arms. “Oswald.”

“The angle of the wound suggests her throat must have been slit as she was lying down,” Oswald replied, sounding considerably bored.

“Well, that makes sense with what I saw,” Sam began, scratching just by his temple.

Gene interjected, putting a hand on Sam’s sleeve. “What did you see?”

“I saw a woman, that I now know must have been Trisha, stumbling into the alleyway and falling over. I went to help her and I guess I got whacked over the head. That’s when I blacked out.”

“Is that it?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Fan-bloody-tastic.”

Oswald watched the exchange and then started speaking again. “She had blue carpet fibres stuck to the mud of her shoes.”

“Great. So she was in one of the many establishments which have blue carpet just before she died, that narrows it down by a lot, a whole lot,” Sam said, sarcasm thick and impatience now manifesting itself in a tilt of the head.

“Hang on. I was in one of the many establishments which have blue carpet just yesterday,” Gene said. “She’d had a card in her wallet for some place called Show Real Estate, so I checked it out. Wall to wall carpet – all blue. And now that you mention it, _a person of power_. I suppose that could apply to an estate agent?”

There was something very earnest about how Sam responded to this information. “Did you describe this place in your report?”

“What report?”

“Right then. Let’s roll.”

* * *

There was no preliminary discussion when Les Showman opened the door of his palatial style home. 

“Hello Les. Lovely to see you again. I have it on good authority that it’s likely you’re a murderer. You’re nicked,” Gene said and proceeded to drag Les by the arm to the Cortina. 

“What?” Les squawked, obviously flustered. “I’m not a murderer. I’ve never even killed a cat.” He struggled against Gene’s hold, but ended up getting his arm twisted even tighter.

“Don’t like cats anyway. How about dogs? Killed a dog?” Gene asked, staring at him menacingly. Sam just rolled his eyes. They drove back with Les being stubbornly silent. The sky was slowly darkening into an everlasting twilight. It was getting to be quite late. 

At the station, after there had been a hurried and vitriolic discussion, DCI Brandon insisted in sitting in on the interview, so there were three officers sitting across the table, each one adopting a different persona. It wasn’t so much good cop/bad cop, as it was the good, the bad and the ugly. 

“Why was Trisha Morris really at your office that day?” Sam asked.

“I already told grizzly, here” was the reply.

Gene appeared to like the appellation and growled. “You gave me a story. What about actual facts?”

“She was applying for a job!” 

Les Showman was not the confident man he had been when Gene had first interviewed him. His grey hair now looked lank, the lines of his face made him seem immeasurably older. His eyes were wide and furtive. 

“Why should we believe you?” DCI Brandon queried.

“Because.”

Sam and Brandon found themselves speaking at the same time. “Because?”

“I’m telling the truth.” Les looked decidedly worried that he was there in the Lost & Found, but his demeanor was that of a man who had been caught with the boss’s wife as opposed to embezzling. His jumpiness did not indicate someone who could perform premeditated cold-blooded murder. Not directly, at the very least. Perhaps he had used his money to invest in someone willing to do the job. Sam waited for Gene to say something, but he didn’t, he just sat with his arms crossed. 

“Let’s lock him up,” Gene said after a while. Brandon nodded. Sam nodded too. They’d keep him overnight to see if he was going to say anything. 

As he was pushed into Cell 7, Les opened his mouth to speak but shut it again. Hopefully, the night would convince him that speaking really was the best option. DCI Brandon rounded on Gene and Sam.

“So you think he’s our murderer?” he asked, eyebrow arched.

“Not exactly. But he knows who is,” Gene replied. 

Brandon addressed Sam. “You have your memory back?”

“It’s been coming back over the last couple of hours,” Sam replied. He tried not to get too defensive, unaware of what Brandon was driving at.

“Good. Can we get a witness statement then? We’ll get as much information as possible so that we’ll have enough ammunition to tear Showman down.”

It was Sam’s turn to raise his eyebrow. It actually sounded like DCI Brandon wanted to solve the case. Amazing. They walked back into the Lost & Found. Sam reflected it was odd being on the other side of the table.

“I guess first things first – why were you there?” Brandon asked. He had a light conversational tone, pen and paper in his hand and didn’t appear to be fitting Sam up. 

“I had some information from an informant that there was a drug deal occurring at that spot either that day or the next. I was doing surveillance.”

“Is that all you had to go on?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were still there?”

“Yeah. It was a big deal. A high profile supplier and one of his dealers.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know.” 

DCI Brandon smirked. “You were there on the offchance something might happen, but you weren’t sure what.”

“He’s very keen is our Sam,” Gene replied.

“As mustard,” Sam added.

“I’m still not sure I understand,” Brandon said. He stopped taking notes and put his pen on the table with a clatter. 

“I was trying to prove a point,” Sam replied. There was self-knowing humour in his next words. “I just didn’t quite succeed.”

Gene’s grin was bright and relaxed. “Understatement of the century.” 

Sam ignored him and continued. “Anyway, the important thing is, I was there, it was about 9.30pm and I saw Trisha stumble into the street.”

Brandon interrupted. “You’re sure it was Trisha Morris?” 

“Same height, same hair colour, same features as far as I could discern. I’m pretty sure, yeah. I got out of the car and walked over. I heard some noise, uh… er, I guess it was a clicking sound. And the next thing I knew – bam.”

“You know that Trisha Morris had heroin in her system, I suppose? Oswald told me you have been to visit him.”

“Yep. So clearly, the murderer is whoever that bloke was that Les was doing a deal with.”

Gene interjected. “I still don’t understand the motives behind killing her, but leaving Sammy-boy here mostly intact.” 

“Maybe they could tell I’m a cop?”

“You think a little thing like that’s going to stop people? Dream on.” 

Sam shrugged and sat back. DCI Brandon did much the same thing. Gene started tapping on the desk. 

“I almost can’t believe I spent the whole of the day trying to figure out where you were for such vital evidence,” Brandon said, rolling his eyes. 

“Hometime, I think,” Gene stated. “We’ll leave Les to stew for a while and then put him through the strainer tomorrow. You gonna be alright, Sam?”

“I’ll be fine.”

* * *

He couldn’t sleep. He’d tried. He’d rolled over once. Rolled over twice. Had the light on. Had the light off. He’d moved to the sofa. Back onto the bed. Sleep was just not coming. He kept thinking. His brain was moving a mile a minute. 

If he was in a coma and his mind was creating this world, he couldn’t have had amnesia, could he? But if he wasn’t in a coma, and all of this was real, why was he here and how was it possible? The questions were endless. When he had something to work on, a purpose, he was okay. He didn’t have to think about these things. But at the moment he was in limbo. He couldn’t imagine anything else he had to do. He just had to wait. It was waiting which brought about the non-stop questions with impossible answers.

“Oh, you’re back!” she said. He attempted not to show how startled he was this time, but it was just like any other. He involuntarily moved backwards as the Test Card girl hovered at the foot of his bed with her hideous stuffed clown.

“You went away. Far away. I was so lonely,” the blonde girl said, pouting theatrically. She swayed from side to side and Sam felt himself gripped with terror and disgust. “So very lonely. I hope you don’t go back there again.”

Sam seized upon this opportunity. “Where did I go?” 

“Into the darkness, there is no light, no more working, no more fight. Were you happy, not knowing then, where you come from, why, how and when?” 

“Leave me alone,” Sam shouted. “Or do you want that in rhyme? Why don’t you go, why don’t disappear, I don’t want to see your nasty face here.”

He turned away and sure enough she vanished. Not completely of course, she was still on the screen, smiling with the blackboard by her side. Sam got up and switched her off. She had asked a good question. Had he been happier, not knowing about the crash and his disconnection with 1973? Had he felt like he truly belonged? 

If anything, he had felt worse. He had actually felt worse not knowing the complexities of either being a timetraveller or a stark raving lunatic. How was this possible? Why him? If this was all about him learning some grand lesson, he wasn’t getting it. He didn’t understand why his mind insisted on playing tricks on him. Or, if it wasn’t his mind, whatever it was that did. 

Sam lay down on the bed again and cradled into his pillow. There had to be something he could concentrate on which wouldn’t make him feel like his stomach was tying itself in knots. Chocolate. He liked chocolate. Chocolate was nice. Annie holding a bar of chocolate. That was good too. A friend. Something sweet. Driving around at top speed. That was exhilarating and something which would require his whole attention.

No. It wasn’t working. He still couldn’t sleep.

* * *

Gene felt like knocking his head into the table repeatedly. How was it that two hours had gone by and Les still hadn’t told them anything useful? Brandon had left the room long before, having to oversee the other cases operating. Apparently Ray and Chris had almost solved their robbery and were interviewing suspects in the canteen. Gene had to concede that Brandon wasn’t being nearly as antagonistic as he at first presented himself. In fact, he said that at the end of the day he’d talk to Rathbone and go back to trying to secure a permanent position in his own specific field. 

Gene didn’t understand what was up with Les. He thought that he would want to clear himself of any suggestion of murder, but he didn’t say anything. Gene grew increasingly frustrated. He’d threatened him with violence. Threatened him with a ruined reputation. Threatened him with Sam’s singing. Les sat, fidgety but quiet.

“I don’t want to have to ask you again,” Sam said, sighing deeply. 

“We’re bringing in your secretary to help us out with you,” Gene added. This elicited a reaction from Les. His head darted up quickly before he looked straight at the table again. Gene noted this, curious. He shared a look with Sam. “I wonder what tales she’ll tell.” They left the room, letting Marlowe escort Les back to his cell. 

At Show Real Estate, Celeste was not quite as friendly as she had been the day before. When she saw Gene, she scowled. This day she was wearing a pastel green suit with matching eye make-up. Her hair was in a tasteful coiffure. 

“You again? What for?” 

“We’re here to ask you some questions about Les,” Gene replied. 

“Not sure I’d be able to help. He has, what do you call it? ‘Done a bunk.’ It’s just me from now on,” Celeste replied. 

Sam was about to speak, but Gene interrupted him. “That’s a shame, sweetheart.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Celeste said pointedly. “I am very busy, Detective Chief Inspector.” She started placing official looking papers in a large pile. Her manicured hands were quick and methodical. Gene waited a bit and gave a low whistle. It was then that Celeste looked up, and for the first time, really seemed to notice Sam. Her eyes lingered on him for quite a while. Gene thought that this was an odd reaction. 

“We actually know where Les is,” Sam said, apparently not noticing anything out of the ordinary. “He’s down at the station, answering our enquiries.”

“Is he really?” Celeste said, her hand now reaching into the desk drawer for something. “How fortunate.”

Sam nodded. “If you don’t mind, we’d really like you down the station as well, so that we can ask you our questions in a method where we can keep some kind of record.” 

Celeste gestured to the papers with her free hand. “I’d really rather not.”

“Okay, darling. But could you anyway?” Gene asked. Celeste navigated around the desk. She stood next to Sam. The next thing Gene knew, Celeste was holding Sam around the waist, pulling him down to her height, with a blade against his throat. 

“I should have done this the first time I laid eyes on you,” she screamed in Sam’s ear. For his part, Sam frowned at Gene, bending at the knees and obviously attempting not to move in any jarring or drastic manner.

“Why don’t you just put the knife down, sweetheart?” Gene asked, a hint of worry creeping into his voice. 

Celeste laughed. “I am so sick of you men and your patronising names. You could work as hard as humanly possible, but if you’re a woman, you still get treated like dirt. For years I’ve watched Les Showman do his double deals and deal drugs, for years I’ve been silent about it. I finally decide to use this to my advantage and some two-bit slag who doesn’t even know how hard life can be comes and tries to take it all away.”

“It isn’t fair, I agree,” Gene said. “But you showed her, didn’t you?”

“In every way possible. I watched the blood drain out of her, as sleeping beauty here lay by her side.”

Sam continued to stand awkwardly. He made no attempt to throw Celeste off. The knife was digging close into his skin. Gene assessed how easy it would be to draw his gun and shoot Celeste without managing to get Sam too. The chances were slim. It was probably safer to keep her talking.

“So how’d you meet Trisha?” 

“She came to apply as a secretary, just as I said. Only, that was a week ago. And in doing so, she saw Les talking to Oscar Johnson.” Gene tutted. “She knew who he was because she used to work for the lawyers constantly getting him out of trouble.” 

“You were killing her to protect Les?” 

Celeste snorted in contempt. “No. I killed her because she started blackmailing Les and that was what I had been going to do. I had just gathered enough evidence to make my accusations convincing and then she came along.” 

Sam looked like he was about to fall over. There was a look of real terror in his eyes now, and Gene knew he had to do something soon. Celeste started moving slowly towards the door, dragging Sam in front of her. As he watched, Gene drew his gun. Celeste made the fatal mistake of turning her back on Gene as she attempted to open the door. The knife that had been in her hand flew forward and both she and Sam fell to the floor.

Sam looked at Gene with a mixture of deep gratitude and congratulations. He went to move forward, then stopped, then moved forward again and put his arms around Gene. He held him in a hug that couldn’t have lasted three seconds.

“You’re not starting that funny business again, are you?” Gene asked gruffly, but he patted Sam on the shoulder and mostly just looked pleased.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sam said with a deadly straight face. “I encourage you to actively forget as well.”

“Forgetting’s a dangerous business, Sam. Gets you into all sorts of bother.” 

There was barely veiled threat in Sam’s response. “Not forgetting could be infinitely worse.”

Gene nodded towards Celeste, who he was now putting handcuffs on. He also tied her by the legs to a nearby chair with his brown striped tie. “So what should we do with her, then?” 

“I’ll radio Phyllis,” Sam said. He bit his lip as he looked at Celeste, whose head was lolling to one side. “Maybe also an ambulance?”

“She just got a bump on the head.”

“With the butt of a gun!”

Gene sighed and playfully sneered at Sam. “Stop being such a pansy.”

Sam left the room and wandered over to the Ford Cortina. He talked to Phyllis over the radio. She sounded terribly amused.

* * *

The window was open because of the stifling heat. Sam had his sleeves rolled up. He tilted his head from side to side as he watched Annie putting files away. He’d offered to help, but she’d refused. Instead she’d asked him a lot of long and involved questions about how he was feeling. Annie looked at him now, waiting for him to answer a question a lot of people had been wondering.

“My memory started coming back before the fight with Gene,” Sam said in a small voice. “Not a lot, just enough to make my stomach churn.” Annie lowered her head. It was like a shutter coming down. She moved to the other side of the room. “Why didn’t you tell me Annie? I can understand Gene, he just thinks I’m nuts. But why didn’t you?” There was an earnest pleading quality to Sam’s words.

“How do you say something like that? Oh, by the way, you think you’re from 2006. I know that’s impossible, but let’s not worry about that – would you like a jelly baby?”

“That’s just… I’m glad you’ve got confidence in me, Annie,” Sam said, his mouth open in indignation. 

“Do you know what the first thing you said to me was after forgetting everything? The very first thing, Sam?”

“Er…” Sam recalled everything, but he didn’t want to admit that.

“You said, and I quote, ‘you’re a sexy bit, how about you treat my other head’. And you expect me to have told you that you believe… sorry… that you’re from the future.” 

“I apologise. That was extraordinarily insensitive and disrespectful of me.”

“Was it you?”

“Sorry?”

Annie brushed her fringe back and looked at Sam as if she was trying to read him like a book. “Was that the real you? Is everything else a complete lie?”

“No, of course not. That wasn’t the real me, I was just being a jerk,” Sam replied. Annie seemed satisfied with this, she smiled at him and stepped closer.

Her voice was quiet and empathetic. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Annie. I’ve this terrible feeling I’ve been acting like a petulant child, and not just after the smash to the head. I think I’ve actually regressed around thirty years.” 

“I thought it was thirty-three years, Sam?”

“You just love torturing me, don’t you?”

“I can’t help it. You’re so sweet looking when you’re sad.” She paused for a while. “I think we all go through moments where we don’t know who we are, or what we’re doing. You’re just going through a phase,” Annie said, patting his shoulder. 

“I just don’t know how long this _phase_ is going to last.”

“Right. So, you better make the most of it whilst you can!”

Sam nodded his head, swung his legs around and then stood up. He was about to leave when the door burst open.

“Get your coat on, Sam,” Gene barked, an adventurous look in his eye and bravado in his stance. “We’ve just had a report of a series of burglaries being committed by men wearing elaborate fancy dress costumes.”

Sam looked back at Annie with small smile to say goodbye.

“You’ll never guess what,” Gene said, a grin forming on his face.

“What?”

“They’re a bunch of bloody pirates.”

Sam laughed, grabbed his coat and followed Gene out of the station. Perhaps he didn’t entirely know who he was, and maybe this wasn’t a bad thing. He knew that he was important, that his presence was needed. He’d had first hand experience that everything had gone to hell when he hadn’t had his wits about him.

It seemed that 1973 needed him. And he guessed in a way, he needed 1973\. So like Annie said, he might as well make the most of it. All the same, though, he had to always make sure that he wasn’t forgetting tomorrow.

**THE END**

***

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